


Undercover

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Desk Sex, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 11:50:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4918441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"After ten years of experience with Yamamoto’s particular brand of magnetism, Gokudera should know better than to hope for the attention to devote to the meeting he should be focused on." Yamamoto is distracting, Gokudera more so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Public

Yamamoto is being distracting.

This is a constant in Gokudera’s life. He ought to accept it, he is aware distantly; after ten years of experience with the other’s particular brand of magnetism he should know better than to hope for the attention to devote to the meeting he  _should_  be focused on. It’s bad enough that they’re not allowed to sit next to each other -- Gokudera’s own rule, established after entirely missing two hours of conversation due to Yamamoto’s fingers playing with the edge of his shirt -- but across the table is perhaps worse, as this way Gokudera can  _see_ , and that is. Well.  _Distracting_.

It’s the eyes, Gokudera decides, an hour into the meeting and forty-seven minutes into him giving up on paying attention to anything but the man across the table from him. The open collar is bad, sure, the habit Yamamoto has of playing with his pen worse, but it’s the way the light catches the gold of his eyes -- and the shadow of his lashes when he thinks he’s being subtle in glancing at Gokudera -- that keeps all Gokudera’s attention tangled up around Yamamoto like the tie he’s,  _again_ , not wearing.

That might be Gokudera’s fault, he admits in the back of his head; he’s pretty sure the dark silk is still looped around their headboard, or maybe on the floor in the living room from their latest experiment. The thought isn’t conducive to calm, he finds, and it’s then that Yamamoto blinks, his gaze sliding sideways to Gokudera like he can see through the other’s professional exterior and read the memory right out of his thoughts. Gokudera would flush under that consideration, guilty conscience alone enough to stain color into his cheeks, but Yamamoto’s eyes are drifting down to land at his mouth, the idle slide of the pen through his fingers stilling, and Gokudera can see the flicker of tension at Yamamoto’s lower lip, the shift at the corner of his mouth to drag his teeth just over the soft skin. It looks like an offer, as perfectly calibrated to seduction as if it were intentional, and Gokudera has to lift his hand to his mouth to hold back the groan that wants to break free on the surge of heat that hits his blood. The motion brings Yamamoto’s gaze back up to his, gold eyes gone dreamy-dark on softness; he stares for a moment, looking as dazed as if he just woke up, before he tips his head to the side to make an apology of his smile and an offer of his throat at once.

Gokudera kicks him. It seems the best response, under the circumstances, the fastest way to get him to stop without actually dragging him into the hall and getting all his clothes off as rapidly as possible. But he misjudges either the clarity of the motion or the force he is applying to it, because Yamamoto just swings his leg out under the table to bump the toe of his shoe against Gokudera’s ankle. That’s even more distracting, the worse when Yamamoto slides his foot up to rumple the edge of Gokudera’s slacks, and when Gokudera aims another kick Yamamoto just slouches down in his chair, his smile going teasing as he angles his knees deliberately wide in their shared footspace. Gokudera scowls, irritation and interest both turning into indistinguishable heat, and then the very corner of Yamamoto’s mouth twitches in the threat of a laugh, an unmistakeable  _I win_  sparkling behind his eyes, and Gokudera’s competitive streak roars to life like it was never dormant.

He doesn’t look away from Yamamoto’s eyes as he maneuvers his foot out of his shoe under the table. It takes some doing, and he’s not sure how he’s subtly going to get it back on after, but Yamamoto’s easy sprawl is daring him to action, making an offer based on the premise that he’ll refuse, and if there’s one thing Gokudera will never back down from it’s a dare from Yamamoto Takeshi. He gets his foot free, flattens his hands against the table and his back against his chair to brace himself, and when he next touches Yamamoto it’s with the slide of his sock against the inside of the other’s thigh.

Gokudera intends it to be glancing contact. It’d be enough to prove his point, maybe enough even to get Yamamoto to behave for the rest of the meeting, a moment of friction as he presses his toes against the inside seam of Yamamoto’s slacks. It’ll be worth it for the shock that will write itself over Yamamoto’s face, the wide-eyed stare he’ll send Gokudera’s way, and then as soon as the meeting is over they’ll retreat to Yamamoto’s office or Gokudera’s -- probably Gokudera’s, it’s closer -- and lock the door for the twenty or so minutes they’ll need. So he presses his foot against the inside of Yamamoto’s thigh, holds the other’s gaze as Yamamoto’s stare goes wide and appropriately shocked, and slides the pressure in and up the straight-line seam until he can dig his toes in between Yamamoto’s legs to grind pressure against the familiar heat of the other’s cock through the cover of his slacks.

Everything goes exactly as planned, right up until Gokudera’s foot pins Yamamoto’s slacks tight against his body and Yamamoto  _doesn’t_  flinch away in a burst of embarrassment. Instead the shocked-open gold of his gaze dips out-of-focus, his mouth drops open for a moment before he can duck his head, and there’s a flush of heat so sudden Gokudera can feel Yamamoto going harder under the friction of his foot. It’s Gokudera’s eyebrows that jump up, then, his movements frozen still with shock; for a moment he can’t even watch Yamamoto shudder a silent inhale, can barely sustain an attempt at subtlety as he looks around at the rest of the table. To him Yamamoto’s reaction is spine-tinglingly obvious, the rhythm of his breathing audibly falling to heat and steam even over the distance of the table, but no one’s so much as giving them a second glance, even Mukuro’s irritatingly persistent insight apparently turned to the subject of the meeting rather than to Yamamoto’s obvious lack of attention to the discussion.

Gokudera is aware that he should stop.  _Obviously_ he should stop. They’re in the middle of a meeting to which he should be paying attention; even if the baseball idiot can get away with complete ignorance of all strategic planning, the Vongola Tenth’s right-hand man certainly cannot. Then there’s the fact that they’re in public, that getting his boyfriend off with his foot under a table is  _certainly_  indecent and possibly illegal, and  _then_  that he’s not even sure he can pull this off between the limited coordination of his foot and the layers of fabric keeping his skin from Yamamoto’s. But while he’s still reflecting on what he  _should_  do what he  _is_  doing is pressing in harder, fitting the angle of his foot against the taut front of Yamamoto’s slacks, and when Yamamoto’s eyes flutter shut over the heat-haze stealing his focus, Gokudera drastically revises both his chances of success in this attempt and how much willpower he has to resist temptation.

It’s hard to look away. Gokudera can see Yamamoto’s distraction clear over his expression, drawn into the weight of his eyelashes and the unconscious part of his lips around his breathing; even his shoulders are curled in, his entire position indicating a complete lack of focus on the conversation at hand. If Yamamoto is going to be so obvious Gokudera should at least make a show of paying attention, if only to divert possible suspicion. But it’s hard to keep his eyes off Yamamoto, hard not to watch the barely-there shudder in his shoulders when Gokudera presses in against the heat of Yamamoto’s cock through his slacks, hard to not think about the damp curve of those lips fitting against his mouth, throat, hip. Yamamoto’s got his head bowed, now, is staring at the notepad in front of him; his vague attempt at an excuse would be far more convincing if there were anything written on the paper in front of him, or if he were actually holding the pen alongside the pad and not bracing himself against the edge of the table with one hand. Gokudera slides his foot sideways, lets the angle of his movement grind a line of friction over Yamamoto, and Yamamoto arches in against the resistance, rocking forward as hard as he can manage with a few inches of space to move. It’s enough to knock his eyes shut completely, to dip his head down until even his short-cut hair is casting a shadow over his face, and Gokudera can’t look away, can’t manage to drag his gaze aside as Yamamoto starts to tense, as his breathing drops into something visibly rushed at his lips. Gokudera can see the color in Yamamoto’s cheeks, the flush of excess heat spreading up from his open collar to stain his lips red and warm against the catch of his teeth; his entire body is sparking with adrenaline, the absurd risk of getting caught and the thrill that Yamamoto is  _letting_  him do this anyway, the awareness that if he twists his ankle like this, and curls his toes like that--

Yamamoto’s eyes come open, his shoulders go taut. Gokudera can see the tension catching along his spine, wiping away his awareness of everything around them to make space for the minor eternity of anticipation as his cock swells hard at the front of his slacks. The dark of his eyebrows draw together, his mouth comes open on what looks very nearly like pain; then he’s shuddering, a long tremor of motion all through his body, and Gokudera can feel the pulse of pleasure rock him forward against the push of Gokudera’s foot. He’s quiet enough, Gokudera thinks, just a tiny huff of an exhale that could be a cough as well as anything else, but it’s hard to tell; Gokudera’s attention is fractured by the rush of blood in his veins, by the illicit satisfaction of the moment thudding blistering heat in time with his heartbeat.

It takes Yamamoto a minute to come down. Gokudera watches the tension bleed out of his shoulders, its absence leaving him slumped breathless and flushed over the table. Yamamoto takes a breath as Gokudera slides his foot away, brings a hand up to rub across his face. Gokudera keeps his own expression as composed as he can manage; if his gaze on Yamamoto is darker than it usually is, if the collar of his shirt is hot against his skin, well, there’s only so much he can do. For his part Yamamoto only takes a minute to pull himself back together; by the time he’s leaning back into his chair and looking up to meet Gokudera’s stare, he looks only very slightly disheveled. It’s when their eyes meet that Yamamoto takes a breath, fast like he’s been startled; then his mouth quirks, turns itself into an open-mouthed grin, and no one else might recognize that as Yamamoto’s post-orgasmic smile but Gokudera  _certainly_  does, and it is very suddenly more than he can bear.

“Sorry,” he says abruptly, shoving back from the table while Mukuro is still mid-sentence. He’s not gentle about shoving his foot back into his shoe; it’s enough that it’s on, even if the violence of his motion is enough to scratch a burst of pain against the back of his heel. “I’ll be right back.” He doesn’t look at Yamamoto as he gets to his feet and makes for the door. He doesn’t need to.

“Ah, Gokudera,” as quick as if they had rehearsed it, the exclamation made more convincing by the lingering breathlessness in Yamamoto’s voice. “Are you okay?”

Gokudera doesn’t answer. His silence gives Yamamoto the excuse to chirp “Gokudera!” again, the sound of footsteps reassurance even as Gokudera steps out into the hallway and lets the door swing shut almost in Yamamoto’s face. He’s halfway down the hall to his office -- the best choice, after all -- by the time Yamamoto is stepping out after him, calling his name with a purr of anticipation Gokudera thinks might actually be audible to those still in the room.

When he glances back over his shoulder and sees the smoky eyes and bright grin Yamamoto is giving him, he finds that he doesn’t much care anyway.


	2. Private

“This,” Gokudera growls to Yamamoto’s shoulders, “is your fault, you know.”

Yamamoto takes a breath, starts into “Hayato--” like he actually has some kind of response to that. Gokudera tightens his hold on the other’s bare hip, thrusts a pair of slick fingers deeper into him, and whatever Yamamoto was going to argue dies off into a groan that goes right into Gokudera’s fire-hot veins.

“This is what you get,” he goes on, the words tearing themselves into a purr in his throat. Yamamoto has his forehead pressed against the surface of Gokudera’s hastily-cleared desk, is breathing so hard Gokudera can hear each gasping inhale; his slacks are tangled around his knees, rumpled and sticky and ruined, and Gokudera’s pretty sure he’s hard again, that the slick head of his cock is bumping the edge of the desk with each forward motion of Gokudera’s hand. It just makes him go harder against the front of his own as-yet intact slacks, his cock reminding him that for all Yamamoto might be on round two  _he_  is still suffering from all the strained heat of unfulfilled desire from the last half hour.

“You were  _deliberately_  distracting me,” he snaps, thrusting his fingers in as far as he can reach; Yamamoto whines against the table, back arching at the friction, and when Gokudera angles his hand to press against the slick-soft heat inside him he groans low and shaking and helpless. “Where’s your damn  _tie_ , Takeshi?”

“I don’t--” Yamamoto starts, cuts himself off with another shudder as Gokudera slides through another thrust of his fingers. “ _Ah_. I don’t know.”

“So you just went out without it?” Gokudera’s fingers spread wider, stretch Yamamoto around his touch; Yamamoto’s hips tilt against his hold, sketch out a tiny desperate arc that says he’s seeking friction at the edge of the desk. Gokudera drags him back by an inch, angles his hips in closer so he can press himself against the tremor running along the back of Yamamoto’s thigh. “Half-dressed for an official meeting?”

“I wasn’t--” Yamamoto attempts, but Gokudera doesn’t let him finish that either.

“And then you try to distract me.” A hard thrust, angled in just the way Yamamoto likes it. His shoulders hunch, his fingers drag for purchase against the table; Gokudera grins at the sound he makes, at the weird broken whimper of sensation in his throat. “Did you think I wouldn’t do it?”

“ _Hh_ ,” Yamamoto chokes, gets enough traction on the table to slide himself back a half-inch to meet the thrust of Gokudera’s fingers. “No.”

It’s unclear, as far as answers go, but it doesn’t really matter anyway. “You didn’t think I had the balls to get you off in the middle of a meeting,” Gokudera purrs, leaning in closer like the tension in Yamamoto’s shoulders is a magnet to draw him in. “You thought I’d stop.”

“Yeah,” Yamamoto breathes, and he really does have some kind of traction now; he’s got a hand up against the far edge of the desk, is using that to brace himself and rock back against Gokudera’s fingers moving inside him. “Yes.”

“You forgot all about the meeting, didn’t you?” It’s rhetorical; Gokudera could see Yamamoto’s distraction clear all across his face the moment he pressed his foot in against his slacks, could watch the other’s focus narrow down to just Gokudera and what Gokudera was doing to him. The memory flares hot into him, dissolves the last of his already-fraying patience, and Gokudera lets Yamamoto’s hip go, reaches out to brace himself with an arm over the other’s shoulder as Yamamoto shudders and admits “I did” in complete submission to Gokudera’s demand.

“I knew you did,” Gokudera growls, ducking in close to fit the words against Yamamoto’s ear, and draws his fingers free. Yamamoto sighs at the loss, the sound something between disappointment and anticipation, and Gokudera is reaching for his slacks, dragging his belt loose and opening his fly one-handed while he spills the heat of his voice against the side of Yamamoto’s neck. “You weren’t thinking about anything but me.”

“No.” Yamamoto turns his head, eyelashes fluttering as he angles as close to Gokudera’s mouth as he can get. “I wasn’t.”

“That’s terrible,” Gokudera chides. His slacks are undone; he hooks his thumb under the waistband, pushes the fabric off his hips until he can free the heat of his cock for his still-slick fingers. “You should pay attention during meetings, Takeshi.”

“Yeah,” Yamamoto agrees, the sound skidding out of any attention, and then Gokudera bumps the head of his cock against the other’s thigh and any attempt at coherency gives way to a breathless “ _Yes_ ” with another rock backwards to leave no question what he’s talking about.

Gokudera would tease him, if he had more patience. It’s satisfying, sometimes, just to watch how desperate Yamamoto can get for him, how liquid-hot he goes with desire flaring through him. But Gokudera’s the desperate one, has been since before he bolted from the middle of the meeting, and so instead of teasing he fits his cock against Yamamoto’s slick-stretched entrance and thrusts forward, a slow slide that loses nothing of its heat for the steady pace. Yamamoto groans, his mouth going slack around the sound, and Gokudera can feel his own shoulders tense, can feel his entire body go taut with the friction of his movement.

“Fuck,” he says, crystal-clear on his lips, and pulls back to thrust forward again. Yamamoto shudders, his hold at the edge of the desk easing as Gokudera starts to fuck him, and Gokudera watches his eyes go hazy, his attention wandering away into heat again just at the press of Gokudera’s cock inside him.

“You looked so good,” Gokudera tells that glazed-over gold, reaches down to curl his fingers against the base of Yamamoto’s hard-flushed cock. His strokes are easy, lacking any real rhythm or deliberation; the motion is just to flutter Yamamoto’s lashes, to pull his breathing loud and straining in his chest. “I can’t believe you came just from me grinding against you.” He laughs, low and hot in his chest, and Yamamoto moans something incoherent and shaky; Gokudera can feel the tremor of reaction run straight through the arc of the other’s body under him. He leans in closer, presses his mouth to the back of Yamamoto’s neck, and Yamamoto whimpers, arches up against the pressure while Gokudera lets his hand fall into a rhythm, starts jerking Yamamoto off in time with the drive of his hips.

“You were so hot,” he says, wet and warm and sincere against Yamamoto’s skin. “Tipped in over the table like that panting and coming for me.” He laughs again, feels the sound drag into almost a moan in his throat; he’s going to pieces, he can feel, coherency flickering out to dissolve in the heat under his skin. “I love when you look like that, Takeshi, you look so  _fucking_  good.”

“Hayato,” Yamamoto manages, chokes on whatever else he was going to say. “ _Hayato_.”

“Do it again,” Gokudera says, scrapes his teeth gently against the back of Yamamoto’s neck. “Come on, Takeshi, come for me again.” Yamamoto takes a breath, chokes on the sound, and Gokudera pulls away, the race of his heart and the heat in his veins telling him look, pay attention, here: shoulders straining, fingers flexing, all Yamamoto’s body going tense except for his face, the juxtaposition of anxious anticipation through his limbs against soft eyes, soft mouth, his gaze falling dreamy and unfocused on something far in the distance.

“ _God_ ,” Gokudera says, and Yamamoto shudders, eyes shutting and mouth falling open as he jerks and comes messy over Gokudera’s fingers and the edge of the desk. It lasts longer than usual, the second orgasm in a half-hour enough to drag his body taut and shaking with the force of the sensation, and Gokudera can feel himself losing control even as he tries to keep stroking Yamamoto through the aftershocks, tries to ride out the friction of Yamamoto clenching involuntary pleasure against him.

“Fuck,” he says, his hand stalling and his movements going jerky. Yamamoto whimpers, shudders again in another pulse of sensation, and all Gokudera has time to say is “ _Takeshi_ ” before his vision narrows and whites out into a shuddering wave of heat. He’s gasping for air, his body tensing of its own accord, and everything is warm, satisfaction and pleasure shaking through him to sweep away any other concerns for a few moments of complete peace.

It takes a minute for Gokudera’s heartbeat to steady. He’s still breathing hard when his vision clears, still curled in as close to Yamamoto as he can get under the circumstances; Yamamoto is sprawled over the desk, eyes open but unfocused, mouth warm on a dreamy smile Gokudera is quite sure is unconscious.

“Fuck,” Gokudera says again, the word sapped of all its edge by the languid heat in his blood. “We have to get back to the meeting.”

“Mm.” Yamamoto shuts his eyes, smiles wider; when he shifts it’s a minor movement, changing the angle of his arm to a more comfortable one instead of trying to push himself back to full awareness. “Yeah.” A pause, enough time for Gokudera to sincerely consider pulling away but not enough to persuade him to act, and then: “They’re all going to know.”

Gokudera sighs, ducks his head to press his mouth against the back of Yamamoto’s neck. “Yeah, probably.”

“I don’t mind,” Yamamoto volunteers, sounding warm and soft and sweet. “Do you?”

Gokudera considers: the sticky at his fingers, the catch of his clothes against his skin, the ache of effort lingering at his shoulder and the backs of his legs. The meeting still waiting for them, with Mukuro’s laugh and Ryohei’s too-loud questions and Tsuna’s flustered blush. And Yamamoto across the table from him again, warm and flushed and glowing from the inside out in that way he does, looking like Gokudera’s touch has turned his blood to light in his veins.

“No,” he admits, and tucks a kiss just under the loose collar of Yamamoto’s shirt. “I don’t mind.”


End file.
